


Love the Mayhem More Than the Love

by entertheinferno



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Multi, andy hurley is a superhero and saves the day, author is great at tagging, dallon weekes comes in and fixes everything, epic pete/joe bro-ing bc who do you think i am, frank owns a coffeeshop bc who even knows, i need you to understand, joe is a guy working in a coffee shop, matt mixon is an incredible best friend, mostly sap, slight angst, that ryan ross does not treat brendon urie the way brendon urie needs to be treated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 17:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1787827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entertheinferno/pseuds/entertheinferno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe never really means to get a job in a fucking coffee shop.</p><p>(Pete still thinks it’s hilarious.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love the Mayhem More Than the Love

**Author's Note:**

> This monster took me four months to write, give or take a few days.
> 
> My sole accomplishment in life. There was not enough long trohley fics in the world and now that number has increased by one ridiculous coffee shop fic.
> 
> I know nothing about working in a coffee shop, I know slightly more about working in a music store, and I know even less about how the health department works than what I know about working in a coffee shop. I ask that you be willing to suspend your disbelief about those portions.
> 
> Thanks to Kate for beta-ing 3/4's of this even though she had no clue who any of the people were. You're a trooper ily.
> 
> For Bast, I hope beyond hopes that it was actually worth the wait.

Joe never really means to get a job in a fucking coffee shop.

It’s just-- student loans are a bitch, and he’s got to have half the rent for the apartment at the end of every month, and the pay from the music store is shit, despite the fact that, other than Patrick, he’s probably their best employee.

Basically he needs the cash, and it’s not like he’s making anything substantial from the increasingly infrequent gigs with his band, and the coffee shop is there, just down the street from his and Pete’s place.

It looks quiet from the outside, it has vegan options, and he’ll get free caffeine and maybe a little extra cash out of it so he figures, fuck it, why not?

He underestimated how much pain it would cause him.

Pete still thinks it’s hilarious.

\- - -

It’s ass o’clock in the morning and the windchill is something like -30 fucking degrees and Joe is inexplicably awake and doing shit. He does not like this.

He's lived in Chicago his entire life.  That being said, it does not mean he’s any more used to the outrageous, fucking ridiculous cold that likes to sneak in through the cracks in door jams and lingers just outside the warmth of the nest of blankets on Pete's shitty couch that constitutes his bed on most days. It pretty much exists just to make his life miserable.

He kind of hates Frank for making him open the shop today, because he’d really much rather be in his makeshift bed, sleeping.

Unfortunately, that's no longer a feasible option because he has a job that forces him to wake up before noon. So instead he’s sprawled across the counter, head buried in his arms while Brendon chatters genially beside him, starting up the machines and doing whatever it is that actually needs to get done in order to open a coffee shop.

They're lucky Frank is adamant about having two baristas working at all times. Joe knows that mostly it's because with the staff Frank's managed to procure, not doubling up shifts would mean the shop would end up on fire at the end of every day.  Still, it's a good policy-- crazy, slightly pyromania inclined staff or not.

Despite the attempts to keep some semblance of professionalism, the shop usually ends up in some weird state of quasi-disrepair at least once a day. So Joe's not entirely sure the tactic is working out, but, y'know. At least someone's trying.

Brendon is bouncing next to Joe, chipper and bubbly and outrageously Brendon.  Usually he and Joe are usually in the same mood when they get stuck with a morning shift, but apparently today is a good day. Joe doesn't really give a shit about circumstances-- it is entirely too early for anyone to be this fucking happy.

He tries to convey this concept to Brendon through a series of grunts, half mumbled words, and aborted gestures. Brendon just laughs at him.

Asshole.

Gabe is the first one in the door when Joe finally gets up and flips the sign over to open.  He’s grinning almost as much as Brendon, and looks only slightly less like a zombie than usual. This is less disturbing than Brendon's early morning hyperactivity, because Joe is under the impression that Gabe does not, in fact, sleep, and is fueled entirely by alcohol, caffeine, and very shitty club music.  That theory also explains the weird hallucinations he's always talking about with someone, and maybe part of the reason why he kind of stalks William.

Joe blames the other half of that behavior on Pete. There are a lot of reasons Pete should never be a relationship counselor, and the fact that his immediate solution to most problems is to follow the person around or passive-aggressively write angry love song/poems about them makes up about 90% of those.

None if this, however, explains why William puts up with Gabe, or does that little, half-smile thing whenever Gabe does something that's more stupid than usual, like it's endearing as opposed to bizarre and dangerous or just really strange.

William is kinda weird though, so Joe figures it all probably makes sense if you think about it long enough.

Anyway, that's not really the point. The point is that apparently today is gang-up-on-Trohman-because-he’s-tired-and-doesn’t-want-to-be-conscious day, because Gabe is already fucking talking about something in a very loud voice, and he doesn’t miss a beat before he starts berating Joe when he finally tunes into the real world.

“You look like shit, man.”

Joe flips him off halfheartedly and starts making his weird latte-thing.  He hasn’t been working here for that long, and he definitely isn’t responsible for actually knowing the names of these drinks yet. He can make them, that’s going to have to be enough.

He also remembers the names of all the weirdos that make up their cast of regulars, which is an achievement for anyone, or so he's been told.  There is a whole fucking lot of them, and he’s still surprised sometimes that he's been able to remember their faces, let alone their names and orders.

“You should get laid.  Everyone feels better after they’ve gotten laid.”

Joe just flips him off again and contemplates putting rat poison in Gabe’s drink.  He doesn’t.

“Fuck off. No one wants to fuck you. You’re too much of a freak.”

"Tell that to Bilvy next time you see him, I'm sure he'll be surprised."

Joe hates Gabe a little bit most of the time, but he’s actually a pretty cool guy, and he always lends Joe his notes from Music Theory when Joe falls asleep during the lectures, so he can’t totally hate him. He also brings lots of alcohol whenever he comes over to talk about… whatever he and Pete talk about, so he’s got a few redeeming factors.

He’s still a dick.

"You're too chicken to do anything but fuck around with him in the corner, so shut up." Joe slams the drink down on the counter with a little more force than necessary, but Gabe's not the one who has to deal with William's puppy eyes and silent angsting about the fact that Gabe doesn't want to do anything other than make out over the register and throw very shitty pick up lines around, and it's not like he notices, anyway.

Apparently, obliviousness is kind of Gabe’s issue.

Joe figures he's just lucky he’s not the one who actually has to deal with William's very vocal angsting. He's heard tales. He doesn't ever want to have to face that in reality.

Gabe gives Joe a slightly concerned look when he takes his drink, looking like he’s going to like, pat Joe’s arm sympathetically or some bullshit, and then shrugs. “You should try and get more sleep, dude.”

Joe sighs.

Gabe hangs around for a little while longer, loitering near the pastry counter and talking about something with Brendon. Joe keeps hearing snatches of conversation and William's name, but they do get customers, and at least one of them has to get work done, so he does his job and tries not to eavesdrop too much.

\- - -

Gabe leaves ten minutes before his first class starts. He steals half of the flaky breakfast pastry Joe had been picking at, winks at Brendon, who gives him a thumbs up, and then breezes out the door, sunglasses sliding off the bridge of his nose, hood of his sweatshirt flipped up.

It's like a hundred times quieter without Gabe there, and Joe actually has someone to help him make drinks for the impatient, unhappy dudes in identical suits, sighing and checking their blackberry's periodically while they wait to pick up drinks for half their fucking floor.

It also means that he gets to sit next to Brendon's constantly moving body, which is not exactly an upside.

“Dude, can you stop like, vibrating.”

Brendon grins apologetically, shrugs, stops tapping his foot and seconds later starts drumming his fingers on the counter instead.

“Yeah. I mean. No. But like. No.”

Joe groans.

Brendon looks sheepish. "I. Sorry, I'm just." He kind of giggles and Joe sighs louder.

"Bren, he comes in like, three times a week. You see him all the fucking time in your Lit class. This isn't a big deal."

Brendon just shrugs, grins wider, and starts organizing the muffins based on how many chocolate chips are sprinkled on top.

"I mean, yeah, I know. But he's really cool and smart and like, he wears really nice scarfs. And he has a very pretty face. And I have an excuse to talk to him when he comes here."

Brendon is almost as bad as William and Gabe. Almost.

"You need an excuse to talk to him? You're a big boy Brendon, I think you can talk to your weird crush without needing an excuse."

Brendon shakes his head violently, abandoning the muffins so he can rest all of his weight on Joe's shoulder instead. Joe makes a pissy noise and shoves him off. Brendon laughs.

They haven't gotten past the "it's laugh at Joe day" thing yet, apparently.

"No no, that's not how it works. He's cool, and he's got a cool friend with like, almost a beard."

Joe rolls his eyes. Brendon starts making them coffee, which is one of the great things about having shifts with Brendon. He uses coffee like a crutch, which probably explains where he gets his energy from, and it means he's always topping his cup off.

It also means he's always making whoever else is working coffee to drink which, y'know, Joe can deal with.

Coffee is good. Free coffee is even better. Free coffee that does not taste burnt, like Pete's, or unfortunately watered down, like Joe's (he blames their machine. It's an ancient piece of shit, like most of the things they own), is maybe one of the only reasons Joe bothers to get out of bed every morning.

“That’s probably the saddest excuse for a beard ever.” It is, it's like a scruffy patchwork of hair growing out of the bottom half of the guy's face. That's probably not fair to the dude, who's not bad looking, and works the not-really-a-beard thing as well as anyone can, but that doesn't mean it's any more of an actual beard.

Granted, Joe's only ever seen the guy on his own once, and every other time he was brilliantly overshadowed by Ryan Ross's multiple scarfs and eyeliner and Brendon's subsequent excitement, so he could've just failed to get a good look at him.

He doubts it, based on the way Brendon is leaning heavy on the counter while he snorts out his laughter.

Plus the guy has been in at least five or six times on his own since then, or so Joe’s been told, usually when Brendon or Spencer is working. His name is Jon Walker, and he listens to Brendon's stream of consciousness with a bemused smile, flirts with Spencer even though he likes to pretend he'd never give Jon the time of day, and he always leaves a tip despite the fact that, from what Joe's gathered, he's basically a starving artist who tunes guitars for extra cash.

Sometimes Joe realizes he probably lives in a weirder, less intellectually stimulating Wes Anderson film. These realizations usually come when he's high, so he doesn't think about it a lot.

It's almost 11, and Brendon is practically hanging over the counter, watching the door with a level of concentration previously unknown to mankind.

It would almost be a little sad how in love with Ryan Brendon is, except for how it’s possibly the most adorable thing Joe has ever seen, and that list includes the entire litter of squinting puppies that he got his dog from.  

Mostly though, it’s just very awkward, nervous conversations between the pair of them, because Brendon is a lot to take in even after knowing him for as long as Joe has, and Ryan gets to face the full force of that along with this massive, kind of middle school crush.

He stopped being a dick about it after like, the third day though, which is maybe the only reason Joe hasn't done one of the "if you break his heart I'll break your face" talks. That and because apparently, since he cut his hair he lost the whole 'intimidating stoner' look and transitioned to the 'spazzy, adorable, homeless puppy' look. Or at least that's what Pete says.

Point is, Ryan's not a bad guy, he's just a little too wrapped up in his scarves and uppity literature to figure out that Brendon is pretty much in love with him.

If everyone in this place would just pull their heads out of their asses things might run a little bit smoother, and everyone wouldn't be pining after everyone else.

The door clangs open, startling Brendon out of his position and Joe out of his thoughts and the music he was writing on a crumpled napkin. The door opens with an ominous jingle, the bells frank keeps hanging for "ambiance" startling brendon out of his position and joe out of his thoughts (and the music he was writing on a crumpled napkin). a tiny guy in a slightly damp hoodie slips into the shop, new and out of place and very, very unfamiliar.

The first thing Joe thinks when he looks up is "Wow he's hot" followed almost immediately by "He definitely could kick my ass," and he kind of hates that that makes the first thought even more true. Just a little bit.

Brendon, who looks less surprised by the new face, is clearly disappointed that it's not Ryan, and slinks away to the back corner so Joe has to man the register.

Joe is intrigued, because they don’t really get a lot of people outside their regulars very often.  The way Brendon catches the guy’s eye and offers him a small half smile is an indication of him being someone familiar, but Joe has never seen him before.

“Welcome to Coffee’s For Closers, what can I get you?”

The guy smiles a little, all white teeth and gingery stubble, and he looks as curious about Joe as Joe feels about him. 

“You new, or have I just never seen you before?”

Joe can feel a grin start to form before it’s quite reached his mouth, so he preemptively schools his face into a less dorky expression before he makes a bad impression. “Nah, I’ve just been hiding in the back.  Frank’s got me on a strict diet of kibble and coffee beans, I’m like the house pet.”

Brendon snorts loudly from somewhere to Joe’s left and the guy rolls his eyes at them both, but there’s a smile tugging at the sides of his mouth again. Joe can’t believe he’s never seen him before, because if he’s taking this all in stride he must be used to their usual level of weirdness.  Most people don’t act like this kind of thing is normal.

Granted, it’s not normal. But still.

“So, I guess that means you work here.”

Joe nods. “Yeah, about six months now.  I’m Joe.”

“Andy.  So you must be the semi-normal one then, unless there’s another Joe working here that I’ve never met.”

Joe shrugs.  He’s trying to figure out whether or not he minds being broadcasted to his coworkers’ acquaintances as the semi-normal one, and comes to the realization that he’s really okay with that far too quickly.

“So what can I get you?”

“Frank using fair trade coffee beans yet?” Andy asks, fiddling with the sunglasses hooked in the front of his screenprinted t-shirt.

Joe shrugs again. “Who knows. I just do the menial labor with whatever I’m provided with.”

Apparently that wasn’t the correct answer. Andy looks both righteously angry and entirely despondent, like Frank not making sure he buys fair trade coffee beans has let him down utterly and completely, and a part of Joe he was not aware existed sort of wants to reach out and like, hug him.

Also maybe put his face on Andy’s face, but that was a part of him he knew existed.  

It’s still a pretty abrupt shift from the initial feeling of “probably gonna kick my ass,” and Joe decides that the “fuck city” knuckle tattoos are misleading, if only partially.  He’s a little wary about the underlying righteous fury.

“Just black coffee then.”

Joe nods and sets up a drip.  He doesn’t bother asking if it’s decaf, because decaffeinated coffee is one of the world’s true abominations, and the only people who drink it are sleep deprived soccer moms and the people who believe Frank when he tells them that the reason he’s this short is because he drank too much coffee as a kid.  Andy is obviously neither of those people.

Brendon must decide that the lack of a morose Ryan isn’t enough to stop him from harassing customers, familiar or not, and when Joe turns back around he’s sitting on the counter bumping his foot against Andy’s knee.

“Where ya been, Hurley?”

Andy shrugs and smacks Brendon’s foot away.  “Went back home for a while.  One of the pipes exploded at my mom’s place.  Matt came up and we fixed it, did some house work.  It was alright...”

Joe feels a little weird listening to their conversation, because he doesn’t actually know any of these people, but he leans on the counter anyway, and Andy flashes him a half smile so it must be ok.

“You’re back now though?”  Brendon asks, prodding him with the toe of his shoe again. Andy grabs his ankle and yanks him off the counter, elbowing him in the side when he regains his balance.

“Stop with the fucking shoes, Bren, christ.  Yeah, I’m back, doing some stuff in the scene again before I actually go back to work.”

“Who’re you playing with?” Joe asks before he can stop himself.  He’s got a bad habit of assuming people mean the “music scene” whenever the word comes up in conversation, and it’s gotten awkward a few times.  For all he knows Andy could be into, like, crocheting, or something.

“Couple friends got a band together.  They haven’t played yet.”  Thank god he didn’t fuck this one up.  “I owed them a favor, and I figured it’d be better to cash in now then when they decide to tour half the midwest’s shittiest bars.”

Joe grins because, yeah, he gets that.  Before he can say anything else he remembers he’s got a fucking coffee to make and he squawks, just a little bit, and flails around to try and stop coffee from overflowing all over the fucking counter.  

Andy doesn’t laugh at him, just takes the just this side of too full coffee cup, and Joe decides that he’s definitely his new favorite, hands down.  

“So what do you play?”  he asks, after he’s sure he’s not going to interrupt some pre-coffee ritual or anything.  People get weird about their caffeine.  This is a lesson he’s learned the hard way.

“Drums.  I’ve been in the scene for a long time.”

It’s not a big surprise, and Joe nods emphatically.  “Same. I’ve been around it since high school.”

Andy grins, big and bright, and initial attraction has quickly transitioned into that lingering feeling that leads to stupid things like actually liking people.

“I played with Racetraitor, that was probably one of my favorites.”

“Dude, my roommate was with Racetraitor.  Shit, you know Pete then.”

Andy laughs this time, and Joe can’t help the stupid, dorky grin that slips out.  “Oh man, if you’re rooming with Pete I feel bad for you.  He’s a pain in the ass.  I love him, but he’s a pain.”

Joe laughs.  “Fucking tell me about it.  That’s awesome man.”

The conversation rolls from there.  They bounce from topic to topic, talking about what it was like when they were more active in the scene, school, how Andy ran in a lot of the same crowds Joe did, even though they’d never met.  It’s easy and comfortable and when he leaves, another coffee secure in his hand, Joe realizes that the light feeling that’s hovering somewhere above his stomach and under his heart hasn’t gone away.

Brendon’s looking at him all intuitively, like he totally knows that Joe’s got stupid girly butterflies over a dude he met like, twenty minutes ago.  Joe throws a two day old muffin at him and hides in the bathroom until the afternoon rush comes in to avoid his stares.

\- - -

Joe comes home to the overwhelming smell of sautéed onions and spices and The Smiths playing at full volume.  Evidently Mikey's been over.

"Hey duck hunt! In the kitchen!" Pete shouts.  Joe tosses his jacket on the couch and picks his way across their cluttered living room.  He turns The Smiths down on the way over because as much as he appreciates good taste in music, now is not the time for Morrissey.

"Hi! You're home, I'm cooking."  Joe nods his head and passes Pete the carefully cut up vegetables that he’d been reaching for. There's a scary amount of shit all over their counter, and half of it is stuff Joe didn't even know they owned.

"Clearly. It looks like Kitchen Nightmares fused with D-day in here, dude."  Joe says, pushing Pete out of the way so he can take the pasta off the stove and drain it before Pete hurts himself.

Pete nods distractedly, too busy stirring the vaguely sauce-ish concoction bubbling away on the stove. "Patrick's coming over later for a rock band tournament."

"Oh I get it, it’s just to woo Patrick into your bed. To think I thought you were making me a nice home cooked meal to remind me of how cherished I am."

Pete actually looks up from the pot of whatever, and he's grinning, all too big teeth and stupid hair. "I don't need to woo you dude, I've already got you wrapped around my finger.”

Joe waves his middle finger in front of Pete’s face.  Pete lets out a strangled battle cry-- something midway between a small feline and a baby bear-- and launches himself at Joe.  They tousle until the fear of knocking over all of Pete’s food stuff becomes too great and Joe has to extricate himself from Pete’s headlock to stop a pot of boiling water from tipping all over them.

“There’s not even anything in this dude, what the fuck.”

“Rock band, Joe.” Pete says emphatically, which totally does not explain why the fuck he has a pot of boiling water on the stove that clearly has nothing in it whatsoever.  Joe is lucky he didn’t come home to fire and, like, melted cheese and blood dripping from the walls.  

Jesus.

Pete’s humming off-key to fucking girlfriend in a coma, grinning and bobbing his head like a fucking dork and Joe just leans against the counter and smiles to himself about the fact that Pete’s actually happy for once, because shit, it’s really nice.  

“Hey, so guess who I met today dude.  Andy Hurley.  Andy fucking Hurley from Racetraitor.”

“I don’t know any other Andy Hurley’s, asshole.  That’s awesome! I haven’t seen him in fucking forever.”

Joe rolls his eyes.  Pete stares at him until he realizes Joe doesn’t have anything else to say and then goes back to cooking.  Joe does the dishes.

It doesn’t occur to him until later that maybe mentioning Andy was sort of weird.  Just a little bit.  Whatever.

\- - -

Joe learned the tale of Frank Iero and his vampire shadow (aka Gerard Way, who's actually pretty cool, even though he's a little hermit-y and probably never washes his hair without being forced to do so) by asking what Jersey was like a few weeks into his job.

Frank grew up in Belleville.  He met Gerard through Mikey, when Gerard was still in art school and almost directly before he tripped and fell into his steep, downward spiral.  The story changes slightly every time either of them tells it, but the general understanding is that Frank and Mikey pretty much held Gerard above water until he could figure out how to get himself back on his feet.

Somewhere in between Gerard replacing alcohol with caffeine and actually publishing a successful comic book, Frank fell a little bit in love.  Of course, that’s probably the understatement of the century of, if Frank picking up everything to follow Gerard to Chicago is anything to go by.

Gerard was picked up by some big publishing firm who offered him a job on their design team and a publishing deal, and he rented out Bob’s apartment because Bob was going on tour again.  About two weeks after Gerard was settled in, Frank showed up on his doorstep, soaking wet, with the deed to a shitty brownstone clutched in his hands and grand plans for a coffee shop and romance.  Frank refuses to admit to the last part, but he goes all soft around the edges when Gerard tells it that way, so no one believes him.

Sometime between renovating the building that’s become home to Joe’s second family, actually settling into Chicago, and Mikey moving in with Gerard (Joe’s pretty sure the Way brothers actually start to feel physical pain if they’re separated from each other for too long), Frank pushed, shoved, and elbowed his way under Gerard’s skin and into his heart (and pants).

On Valentine’s Day Gerard drew Frank an anatomically correct heart that described his left ventricle as being Frank’s permanent spot forever, or whatever.  It’s actually kind of creepy, but Frank has it taped up behind the counter and Gerard had looked adorable when he presented it, covered in glitter and crimson paint splatters, so nobody says anything.

Brendon kind of volunteered his whole backstory, or whatever, the first time he went out drinking with Joe, and Spencer filled in the blanks about the Ryan Ross thing later, explaining that he and Ryan grew up together and moved to Chicago, and the lovesick puppies debacle is maybe inadvertently his fault.

Spencer is a lot less intimidating when he's drunk. He's also pretty funny.

Joe learns William's whatever in parts through Patrick and William himself, and it's probably the only one he voluntarily asks for.

Gabe is just really talkative.  He’s also really good friends with Pete, which is a surprise to absolutely no one.

Everyone else falls into place from there, aside from a few exceptions, like Jon (who Joe asked the one time he came in alone when Joe was working, with a camera bag slung over his shoulder and a battered Nikon around his neck, and he's maybe the most normal one, outside of the whole, flip-flop crazy cat guy thing.)  For the most part though, Joe finds out about all of these people on accident.  It’s easier than it would seem, especially since apparently everyone Joe knows knows everyone else. It's like a really fucked up social web.

It feels weird to find out about Andy the way most normal people probably learn about their friends.  He hears snatches from Frank and sometimes Brendon, and Pete tells him stories from their Racetraitor days when Joe asks, but mostly he learns about him leaning over the counter while Andy sips his coffee.  

They talk about pretty much everything, which Joe knows sounds really gay, he does, but he also doesn’t give a fuck.  Thankfully everyone’s decided they’re not going to be dicks about this.  Joe thinks it’s because of Andy’s more violent anarchist days (and those were fun stories to hear.)

Andy tells Joe about Fuck City, smiles his way through a bunch of outrageous stories heavily featuring his friend Matt, who comes in a few days later to rib Joe a little about his “intentions” with Andy, drinks two enormous, heavily sweetened coffees in under 30 minutes and then leaves, fist bumping William on his way out.

Andy listens with quiet attentiveness when Joe talks about college, shares stories from when he was going about the perils of double majoring, grins when Joe tells him about Pete now.  They swap horror stories of Wentz-isms, and Joe tells him about the abandoned band that never managed to get past two fucked up members.

Andy gets excited when he talks about animal rights and social justice and wanting to go live out in the woods off the land or whatever.  He waves his hands around a lot and his shirt rides up and Joe swears, he’s paying attention, because what Andy has to say is really, really interesting, but god he’s got these hip bones, and there’s tattoos everywhere.

It’s been two weeks when Joe realizes that that spark of interest, the “wow he’s hot” and “wanna bend me over in the back room” that Joe felt when he first saw Andy hasn’t actually gone away.  It’s faded into background noise, the kind that he’s reminded of when there’s lapses in their conversations and he finds himself staring at Andy’s tattoos, his slim hips, his stupid, half-there smile.

That’s not really a big deal in and of itself, because it’s been a while, and Andy’s really, really hot.  Joe’s not having any problem coming to terms with his very present attraction to Andy.

The issue is that Friday afternoon, almost three weeks after Andy came in for the first time, Joe realizes he’s hanging half over the counter as Andy backs out the door, still talking animatedly about some hardcore show he and Matt had been at the night before.  There’s a bruise spreading across his shoulder, purple, damaged skin mixing with the ink already there.  He’s got this smile Joe hasn’t seen before, soft and small and he won’t stop looking at Joe even though he just said, like, a minute ago that he had to get going because he had to meet with the band he’s with for practice.  He’s still there though, right in the doorway, smiling and swaying on his feet and looking really infuriatingly adorable and wow, yeah.  When did that happen.

Spencer is very obviously watching them, eyes twinkling while he smirks because he’s totally an asshole and Joe is hanging over the counter like an absolute idiot but he can’t bring himself to stop because he has this overwhelming need to be in very close proximity with Andy constantly.  Then Andy lets out this tiny, resigned sigh because “I gotta go.  Really.  I’ll see you.” and then he slips out the door and Joe slips back into a more normal position.  Spencer is still grinning, like he wasn’t doing the exact same thing when Jon was in here on Wednesday, and Joe scowls, takes the half muffin Spencer had been eating and goes to hide in the break/store room.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, ignores the stupidly happy twinge he gets when he opens his messages and sees the smiley face Andy sent him last night before the show started, and texts Pete.

ur taking me to get drunk.

cn i brng ptrck

sure pete.

\- - -

Contrary to what most of the people Pete has slept with may think, he’s actually a pretty great person, and an even better friend.

Granted, he’s also occasionally a self-absorbed asshole, but that’s pretty typical of most of the people Joe knows, so it’s not a huge deal.

But the bottom line is Pete is a fucking amazing friend, which is why he’s sitting in a shitty bar next to a plastered Joe at an embarrassingly early hour of the night, listening attentively while Joe whines like a teenager about Andy.

“He’s just really great, y’know?” Pete laughs into his arm and Joe can see Patrick smiling out of the corner of his eyes and he just frowns and takes a swig of his beer.

It takes him two tries before he realizes it’s empty and Pete’s really laughing now, that irritating, too-loud guffaw that makes everyone kind of want to slug him in the stomach.

The bartender clearly shares Joe’s sentiment and he glares at Pete until Patrick punches him hard enough to make him be quiet.  Joe really likes Patrick.

“Dude, you’ve known him for like, a week. You’re so whipped.”

Joe glares harder and waves his middle finger in front of Pete’s face.

“Three weeks. And you started stalking Patrick the day I started working at Brian’s, so you can’t talk.”

The fact that Patrick just smiles softly at Pete when Joe says that and leans their shoulders together is a frankly disturbing development in his and Pete’s relationship. Joe makes a face and bats his hands at them.

“Go away, your love is sickening.”

Patrick laughs and Pete makes a big show of kissing him, with lots of weird face caressing and bad porn moaning and Joe groans loudly.

It’s not his fault he gets bitter when he’s drunk, they shouldn’t laugh at his pain.

Pete and Patrick’s Pete and Patrick-ness just brings out the worst in him.

Patrick shoves Pete off after another minute of kissing, which very quickly slips into actual making out instead of “let’s-try-and-make-Joe-uncomfortable.”  The real kissing is worse, and Joe totally loves Patrick for stopping it.  Patrick is the best.

He actually listens while Joe waxes poetic about Andy.  It’s embarrassing, but Joe has listened to Pete do this since he was seventeen, which is a long fucking time, and he’s nowhere near as bad as Pete gets. Got. Whatever.  He still talks about Patrick almost constantly.

"Okay, wait." Patrick interrupts, and he's got a very serious look on his face, the kind of one he gets when he's writing music in the store when he thinks no one is watching, or when he's teaching a little kid to play guitar. Joe blinks at him blearily and Pete nods.  “Andy straight edge vegan-”

“Hurley.” Pete supplies helpfully, and the way Patrick’s looking at them both makes Joe worry for a second that he’s grown another head.

“Did I not mention that?”  

“No!” Patrick glares, Pete cowers, just a little, and Joe has lost any grasp he had on this conversation in the first place.  “Asshole, I know Andy! Andy’s the best, dude.  I can’t believe you didn’t tell me it was Andy.”

Pete just shrugs. “I mean, how many crazy vegan Andy’s do you know, dude? I figured you like, knew. ”  

Joe rubs his face with his hands.  “Everyone but me knows Andy, apparently.”

“No, you didn’t know him before. You know him now.”  Pete says, and he’s looking at Joe like he thinks the woe-is-me anguish Joe is currently basking in is the cutest thing he’s ever seen.  Joe hates it.

“Fuck you, dude.”

“Nah, I’m good. I’ve chosen the monogamous lifestyle.  Maybe if you stalk Andy a little bit though, he can be your Patrick.”

“Fucking hell, I'm becoming you." Joe groans, slamming his head against the bar.  Pete just smiles sympathetically and pats Joe’s shoulder, and Patrick’s too busy choking on laughter and his drink to pay either of them much attention.

\- - -

Joe really likes working at Coffee’s for Closers.

He likes the people he works with, he likes his boss, he likes the regulars (one in particular Brendon’s voice echoes in his head, as irritating as it is in real life.)  

It pays pretty well, he gets a lot of tips, Frank is good about giving them time off when they need it, and he accommodates Joe’s bizarre schedule.  It’s a good gig.  It’s a great gig for struggling college kids and starry eyed hipsters who think they’re maybe going to fall in love over a soy latte and be able to make a living off of their poetry.

Coffee’s for Closers is great, it’s a good job and Joe is lucky to have it, but it’s not the record store.

The Music Or The Misery is a tiny, one story record store wedged between a fashion boutique literally disguised as a thrift store that’s always packed with hipstery types, and a two story brownstone turned bookshop/cafe that looks more like an old professor’s personal library than it does an actual store.  They make a pretty mean cappuccino though, and the barista, a cute redhead with a big smile and a bob, always gives Joe a discount because he tells her when they get the new records in.

The thing about working with Patrick in the cramped, slightly mildewy shop is that it’s a little like living in his high school dreams.  It’s not touring, it’s not driving around the country smelling like sweat and cheap beer, playing at a different venue every night, listening to kids shout lyrics back at him, but it’s something.  He’s still making a difference, and he sees it every time a kid comes in for their guitar lesson, every time the girl Patrick’s taken over teaching piano to every Thursday figures out a new song and leaves the shop beaming, tapping the beat against her thigh.  

Sometimes, on the days he catches Patrick singing along to Sinatra, or when Pete slides him a napkin he’s poured his heart onto, he thinks they could still do the stuff he used to dream about in high school.  They could make it big.

Then a kid in a Smiths t-shirt with a too big hoodie and thick framed glasses will come in and Joe will spend fifteen minutes trying to get them to talk, sends them out with a few cd’s and way more information about local bands than they probably need and a small, private smile on their face and Joe remembers that maybe he doesn’t really need to make it big to make a difference.

They have a new shipment to go through, boxes of vinyls and cd’s, new strings, picks, drumsticks, sheet music, tons and tons of shit, and Joe is sitting crosslegged on the floor, sorting the cd’s by artist name so he can actually put them away without killing himself.  

Patrick is sitting on the piano bench, singing along to whatever is playing out of the sound system while he sorts through the sheet music. He forgets to be shy about his voice sometimes, usually when he’s around people he actually likes, and Joe is all too aware of how lucky he is to be one of the people Patrick is comfortable enough around to belt out the lyrics to Journey songs without going all quiet and dismissive if he catches Joe watching.

It’s quiet-- Sundays usually are-- and they’re doing more lounging around than actual work.  Joe’s got a paper for his Music Theory class due and he needs to email one of his professors about programs that endorse and research alternate teaching methods, and he keeps scribbling reminders on the extra copy of this week's order.

"You working at Frank's this week?"  Patrick asks, flopping a book of Chopin onto his "classical" pile and the music from Adele's 21 into what Joe figures must constitute as the "everything else" pile.

"Monday, Wednesday, and I'm covering Bill's shift Thursday afternoon.  Something about Gabe, grand plans and like, snakes or something."

Patrick smiles a little bit and shakes his head, and Joe just rolls his eyes and keeps sorting CD's.  He's seen so many copies of the new tween boyband's album he thinks his eyes are going to fall out.

He's saved from his fate when the door clangs open with a musical chime.  This kind of dorky, unassuming guy in a Hawaiian shirt comes in and Joe shoves the boxes away and clambers to his feet.  He mouths dibs on register at Patrick.  

He rolls his eyes and probably flips Joe off from underneath the too-long sleeves of his sad, old man cardigan, but Joe doesn't even care.  Sorting shipments is the worst.

The kid just wants new uke strings and drumsticks for his boyfriend.  Joe raises his eyes a little at the purchase and they end up talking for nearly fifteen minutes about some local band they’d both gone to see the weekend past.  By the time he’s gone Joe’s got a name and probably two new customers for Closers.

“Sorting stock is the worst.”  Joe says, barely five minutes later.  Patrick is half sprawled on top of the piano bench with piles of books all over him, and he just gives Joe a slightly exasperated look and continues to do very little.  “We have this same conversation every week, Joe.”

“I know, and it never gets any less boring.”  Joe says, and he’s whining, he knows he is, but he’s still got a paper to write, and he doesn’t want to look at anymore indie-folk-techno-new age funk records probably ever.  He shoves the box out of the way and flops back onto the dusty carpet, staring up at the paneled ceiling of the store, listening to whatever Patrick’s got playing over the speakers.

“You ever think we could do that?” Joe eventually asks.  Patrick looks up from his phone, frowning slightly.

“Do what?”

“This,” Joe says gesturing expansively at the racks of CD’s above him.  “Make music, record.  Be a band.  You’re really good, Pete writes, and he’s shitty at bass, but he can play.  We could do it.”

Patrick shrugs, but he’s smiling a little bit.  “Maybe.  It’d be kinda hard to play drums and be the lead singer though.”  Joe shrugs back and smiles, doesn’t say what he’s thinking because he doesn’t really know if it’s true or not.  Isn’t sure if he knows Andy well enough to ask.

Pete comes in ten minutes later toting coffee and donuts.  He looks tired and sad, but the frustrated lines in his posture slip away when Patrick smiles, and when he leans down to press a quick kiss to the top of Patrick’s head and Patrick meets him halfway, the clouds in his eyes fade away, too.

“Hey ‘Trick.”  He mumbles, and Joe loves Pete and Patrick, he really does, but sometimes he feels like he’s a stranger in another person’s house, constantly stumbling into something too intimate for him to see.

Pete sits down on the floor, back pressed against Patrick’s calves, and Patrick just dangles his hand down, lets Pete tangle their fingers together, and starts talking about music.  And sometimes it’s just that easy, sometimes all Pete needs is a hand to hold and a voice to listen to.  Joe watches the storm pass, sees the quiet recovery Patrick manages to bring about, and continues to be quietly thankful that Joe followed him to work months ago.

Sometimes they're really fucking annoying, sometimes Joe hangs out with them both and he wants to punch himself and Pete in the face.  Except then Pete will smile, and Joe remembers all the days when he couldn't do anything to get Pete out of bed, to stop the volatile slew of angry poems written in sharpie on the wall, when all Pete saw was a dark cloud and another name on a gravestone when he looked in the mirror, and Joe couldn't do anything about it.  Those smiles are worth every second of bullshit.

Joe grabs his stacks of CD's, picks up the copy of Rolling Stone he'd been reading, and his notebook, and stands up.  He throws the notebook and the magazine on Pete's lap, rubs his knuckles gently in Pete's hair and starts to do his actual job.

When he turns around, Pete's smiling, just a little bit.

\- - -

Andy stops in the next time Joe’s working.  

It’s Tuesday morning, and Joe has a class at noon. He’s lying on top of the counter with his feet propped up on an empty box, staring at the blank screen of his phone.  Pete’s supposed to be bringing him lunch, except there’s no Pete anywhere, and Joe’s stomach is not happy about it.

He skipped breakfast, and there’s no one else working, so he can’t run across the street to get a coffee, and Pete is the worst best friend ever. Joe just wants food.

The door jangles open and Joe half falls, half rolls off the counter in surprise.  He miraculously lands on his feet, and then knocks over the nearest rack of records.  He tries to catch as many as he can, and when he finally looks over to see who the fuck is here at eleven in the morning on a fucking Tuesday, scrambling to keep everything in his arms, he's staring at Andy and Matt.

Matt starts laughing and Andy grins like an asshole, but he’s carrying a greasy, white paper bag and it smells like food, like the kind of food Joe eats.  

"I could probably kiss you because you have food but you're laughing at me so fuck you."  Andy goes a little pink around the edges, which is fucking adorable, and Matt just laughs harder, folded up in his stupid hoodie.

Joe is tired, and hungry, and he knows it's a bad idea because he's going to drop shit, but he flips him off anyway.

"Not my fault you were napping on the counter, fuckface." Matt says, and he grins at Joe's middle finger, scoops some of the CDs out of his arms and starts putting them back in the completely wrong order.  If Joe were to hazard a guess at the organization method he'd probably go with color of the cover art.  Or maybe just Matt's personal taste.

"So that food is for me, right? You didn't just decide to come and wave it in my face because you're evil?"  

Andy shrugs.  "Tempted, since it's from fucking Burger King."

"My stomach doesn't have a political affiliation." Joe says, dumping the rest of the merchandise on the counter and then making grabby hands for the bag.

Andy rolls his eyes and hands it to him.  "I’m only giving it to you because I can hear your stomach from here."  Joe grins through a mouthful of absolutely delicious french fries.  

"At least I didn't get a burger dude, it’s just fries."  Andy rolls his eyes again.  "Small victories."

Matt starts laughing from behind the country section.  At first Joe thinks it's because he's looking at the cover for Blake Shelton's newest album, but when he looks around the corner Matt's just looking at them both.

"Man, not even a lecture about morality issues of big businesses?  Supporting the capitalist dogma? I'm ashamed and amused."  Joe's clearly missing something here, because Andy kind of blushes, again, but he looks irritated, like Matt’s doing something he very clearly told him not to.  He doesn’t sound pissed when he flips him off though.

"Fuck you."

"You're so far gone."

"Dude."  The thing about Andy is that he’s got all these tattoos, and this determined sense of self that you hardly ever see in twenty somethings, but he’s quiet and sweet and Joe’s maybe kind of in love with that.  Except right now Andy’s voice has a hard edge, and his expression has barely changed but it’s enough that anyone watching knows Matt has crossed a line that Andy needs him to move like, 6 feet away from.  

Matt looks exasperated, like he’s picking up an unresolved argument, and Andy just looks kind of resigned, like he knows this isn’t going to go anywhere but he’s not going to let it go anyway.

It parallels Joe and Pete’s arguments almost exactly. Joe can’t decide if he should laugh or not.

Matt gives up, shakes his head and throws a wadded up napkin that he produces out of nowhere at Andy’s head and goes back to improperly putting away records, actually muttering under his breath.

Joe raises an eyebrow in Andy’s direction and Andy shrugs, shaking his head.  “He’s an idiot.”  

“Sort of,”  Joe says, and he’s smiling.  

“I can still hear you,”  Matt says, and now he’s scowling at them from behind the Indie/Alternative displays.

“We know,” Andy says, beaming, and the tension slips behind the tightness in Joe’s chest when he looks at him.

\- - -

Later, when it doesn't hurt to look back on the absolute fuckfest that Thursday ends up being, Joe can actually think about what happened and figure out where things started to go wrong.

The conclusion that he (and Spencer, and Jon, and any other person in the room at the time) comes to is that the entire debacle is indirectly Ryan Ross’s fault, and at this point he doesn’t even feel bad blaming him because it’s true.

Three of them are working that day.  Brendon is making up time, Joe is covering for William, and Spencer’s supposed to be working anyway.

It’s quiet up until the very last minute, the calm before the storm. None of them see it coming.

Jon’s in, sitting in the corner, hiding behind a mournfully propped up newspaper, taking pictures of Spencer laughing on his Nikon.  Spencer's still smiling when he notices and he hops over the counter to complain to Jon about it.  The complaining ends up looking a lot more like him leaning into Jon’s personal space and finding excuses to touch him.  Jon doesn’t look like he's complaining much about it. He just grabs Spencer’s hand and laces their fingers together, tells him he’s beautiful when he smiles.

Joe rolls his eyes and pointedly ignores them, thinking about knuckle tattoos and infuriating smiles.

Ryan comes in after his lit class, around one.  Brendon’s been quiet recently, weirdly so, and he won’t talk to anyone about it, but Joe watches while the pair talk quietly in the corner.

Ryan’s gesturing around a lot, the same way he does when he’s trying to make a point to a stranger or Pete, and it’s not the way he usually looks when he talks to Brendon.  He’s cold, and harsh, and Joe can’t really hear their whole conversation, just parts, but he sees the way Ryan pulls away, sharp and aggressive, when Brendon tries to take his hand.

“We’re looking for different things, Brendon.”

“Ry, please.”

“Just stop trying.”

“No, Ryan-” Brendon says, and he sounds so hurt.  Joe has never seen him look older than he does now, tired eyes and a deep set frown, trying to reach for Ryan across the space between them that Joe's never seen before.

“Please, we can figure this out I promise. Don’t- just,”

“God, you’re so fucking dumb sometimes, you know that? It’s over Brendon, we were never gonna work.  You just don’t get it.”  The way Ryan says it, spits it's out like it's something toxic, makes it hard to tell if he’s disgusted with Brendon or with himself.  Either way, Joe feels his hands curl into fists, and he’s ready to jump over the counter and fucking stop this whole shitfest.

Brendon looks like he’s going to start crying, holding his body in as tight as possible, an explosion that's about to go off, but then Ryan’s turning around in a swirl of ugly-ass scarf and clashing paisley, fleeing so he doesn't get hit by the shrapnel.

“Ryan!” Brendon’s almost shouting, voice quivering, and he sounds angry, he sounds fucking pissed, and sad, and so, so tired. Ryan shakes his head, just barely, glances over his shoulder as he's pushing open the door.

“Don’t be an idiot, Brendon.”

The door shuts with a bang that echoes with finality, and the whole room is plunged into silence.

Spencer drops Jon’s hand as soon as Ryan's out the door.  His own are clenched in fists.  He looks pissed, and Joe’s worried for a minute that it’s directed at Brendon, but then Spencer’s storming over to grab his coat.

“What the fuck is wrong with him, I swear to fucking god.”

“No, Spence, don’t. Just-" Brendon sighs, shoulders sagging.  "Let him go.”  He keeps running his hands through his hair, pulling at it anxiously, trying to stop his hands from shaking.  Spencer doesn’t look like he wants to listen to Brendon, he looks like he wants to run out that door and grab Ryan and shake him until he stops being so fucking stupid, but he looks worried too.

“Bren.”

“Just. Fuck.”  Brendon hisses, and Spencer is next to him in seconds, pulling at his hands until they fall limp at his sides, wrapping his arms around him. Brendon just lets it happen, and he’s shaking, violent tremors that Joe can see from where he is.

“I fucked up.”  Brendon says, muffled against the fabric of Spencer’s shirt, but still audible.  Spencer swears loudly, shaking his head.

“No you didn’t.  Fuck that, you didn’t do anything Brendon.  Ryan’s a fucking dick.”

Brendon pulls away, twists out of Spencer’s grip, pushing his glasses up so he can wipe his eyes.

“Can you, like, can you go get tissues, and the, the napkins are out. We gotta get to work.” Brendon says, even though there’s no one besides Jon and the cafe now. It's like they're stuck in a limbo, and no one really knows what to do to make this better.  There's no real way to fix this.

Brendon looks broken and Spencer hesitates, one hand still holding onto him, and his eyes are soft and searching, trying to coax Brendon back out.

“Okay, B.”  He says finally, and Brendon's whole body relaxes by a fraction of a centimeter.  Spencer seems reluctant to leave, even just to go into the store room, but squeezes Brendon's hand and let's it go.

“It’s not your fault.”  He says quietly.  Brendon just avoids making eye contact.

Jon looks as angry as Joe's ever seen him, and when Spencer's gone he gets up and pushes Brendon into the nearest chair, pulling one up beside it.

\- - -

It's quiet for a while.  Jon stays with Brendon until he has to leave for class, talking to him quietly about Ryan and other benign things.  Keeping Brendon distracted.

Spencer works with Joe at the counter, trying to count change while he watches Brendon.

Everything feels like it's in slow motion.  The customers keep coming in a sluggish trickle, moving like molasses.  A gut wrenching haze settles over the whole place, and Joe feels it in everything, wishes he knew how to make it go away.

He keeps making Brendon tea, bumps Spencer's shoulder every time he hands him a drink, but this isn't what he knows how to do.  He's good at Pete, but this is a different kind of upset.

Then this huge crowd of people come in, and they pop the bubble.  Suddenly everything is loud and bright.  People are shaking out umbrellas, high school students are shoving each other into shit and being too loud.  College kids are dumping atrocious amounts of work on tables and shoving to the front of the line, demanding extra shots of espresso.

Joe has never in his life seen this many people in such a small building and he is suddenly acutely aware of the fact that it is not built for this much activity.

Frank mostly furnishes this place with second hand furniture and crap Gee found at estate sales.  The tables are rickety, the counter is old and cracked in places.  The machines are fucking ancient, and Joe realizes very quickly that some of them may not survive this.

Brendon is out of his seat as soon as the people start flowing in, wiping his eyes and fumbling with the machines, trying to help Joe make coffee while Spencer struggles to take everyone's order.

Somehow neither of them notice the older man in the business suit, snubbing his nose at everything and scowling.

By the time he's at the front of the line the counter is a mess, Joe's balancing three to go cups, and the espresso machine isn't working.

Brendon starts banging on it, apologizing over and over again under his breath because "Fuck, fucking, why won't it work?"

Spencer keeps asking what the man's name is for the to-go cup because it's so loud, and Joe doesn't see it happen, but one second he's trying to give people their coffee, and the next second he's smelling smoke and everyone is freaking out.

The espresso machine is on fire, Brendon's got a burn on his hand, and most of the customers are freaking out.  Joe fumbles for a second before diving under the counter to grab the fire extinguisher.  Frank, thank god, actually makes sure it's up to date, and Joe sprays the fire until it's out, doesn't realize until it's gone and the shop is full of acrid, black smoke, that there's no obnoxious fire alarm beeping.

The man at the counter looks fucking disgusted now, and he taps Spencer's shoulder, whole body stiff with discomfort.

"Sir."

"What?" Spencer spins around, distracted and confused, more preoccupied with Brendon being okay than the stuffy guy in front of him.

"This establishment fails to meet a /number/ of health codes, the least of which is a working fire detector.  I'm reporting you to the health department, and I'd like to speak to your manager."

Spencer blanches, eyes wide and terrified and it serves as a reminder that they're a bunch of fucking college kids.

"Uh-"

"I'll go get Frank." Joe says, and this is a disaster.  This is the worst possible thing that could fucking happen and Brendon's got blisters down the back of his hand and Joe doesn't know how to fix this, fuck.

There are few perks of having your boss live above the fucking work place, and Joe goes up the back stairs two at a time, trying not to trip over the shoes and shit that's strewn across them.  Frank's door is unlocked and Joe pushes it open, eyes wide with panic.

Frank's on the couch in a pair of boxers, nose wrinkled like he's smelling something kind of nasty (the fucking burning plastic from downstairs, probably) but he's too lazy to get up and investigate.

"Frank, fucking-"

"Yo, Troh, what's goin' on down there?"

"Brendon set the espresso machine on fire and there's a really fucking creepy dude in a suit who says he's reporting us to the health department and Brendon burned himself pretty bad and I don't think I know how to fix this." It all comes out in one breath and Joe's eyes are wide, and he knows he looks like a scared kid, but that's how he feels.  Frank's out of his seat as soon as Joe starts talking, pulling on a pair of Gee's jeans he grabbed from under the couch.

"Joe listen. Look at me. It's okay, breathe, you're gonna be okay dude, lemme grab a shirt. You don't have to fix this, im gonna fix this alright? You patch up Brendon, make sure everyone's okay. I'll talk to this guy. It's all gonna be ok."

\- - -

It's not all ok.  Almost nothing is ok, in fact.

Frank talks with the guy for a little over twenty minutes, and Joe's never seen him so docile.  Frank is usually pretty calm when he talks to people, which is a stark contrast to the way he moves, but when he's talking to the dude he's just quiet, eyebrows drawn, mouth set in a hard line.

Joe tries to ignore them while he patches up Brendon.  It's not a third-degree burn, thankfully, but it's still looks awful, and Brendon winces while Joe puts antibiotic cream on and bandages it.

Spencer's okay, thank god, and most of the crowd clears out, so it's ominously quiet while Frank talks to the man.

When he finally leaves Frank looks frustrated and worried, and he starts pushing chairs in, ushering people out.

"What happened?" Spencer asks, eyebrows drawn.

"We have to get a health inspection.  Mr. Williams seems to think we're breaking a lot of major health codes, but he's no expert.  You guys can go home, I'm gonna clean the place up and close early.  I gotta set up the inspection and shit. You okay Bren?"

Brendon nods and Frank sighs, but he looks relieved.  "Okay, good. You guys are all okay too?"

Joe nods and Spencer mumbles yes, fussing distractedly over Brendon.

"I'm glad you guys are all okay.  Go home, I'll close up myself."

"What about the scorch marks?" Joe asks, and Brendon curls in on himself a little more.

"It's fine," Frank says, and he ruffles Brendon's hair.  "Seriously, it's gonna be okay guys."

Joe doesn't believe him, but he smiles anyway, and tells himself that Frank's right.

\- - -

Frank sends out a mass text that night, when Joe is curled up on the couch with Pete, watching shitty action movies and pretending that the world isn't fucked up.

health inspection in two days. will let you guys know what's up. gonna be ok.

Joe takes a breath and holds it for as long as he can and Pete just pulls him closer, tucks his stupidly cold feet under Joe's thighs and wiggles his toes.

"It's gonna be okay, Duck Hunt."

Joe shrugs and pulls his hoodie tighter around himself.  "Yeah."

"Seriously, it's gonna be fine."

Joe's skepticism must show on his face because Pete grabs for him and puts him in the shittiest headlock ever.

"Not your fault, asshole. We're gonna fix this."

"Fuck."  Joe says and the headlock turns into one of Pete's full bodied hugs.  Joe grumbles about it, but when he falls asleep on Pete's shoulder the weight in his chest is a little lighter.

\- - -

Frank doesn't call meetings.

Frank is more of the "send out mass emails with too many facts about his personal life" type of guy, and even those are pretty rare. Usually it's to tell them that he doesn't give a fuck if the schools aren't closed, there is too much goddamn snow to be a functioning adult, or to explain that he's taking a honeymoon week so he can fuck Gerard's brains out without the "stress of impending work killing their vibe." Frank doesn't really do that much work anyway, but he does own the place, and signs their paychecks at the end of every week, so no one complains that much.

Other than that, most Frank-messages are passed word-of-mouth from whoever is closest to him when he decides he needs to tell them something.

When Joe gets a text at 2 in the morning, one hand in his pants, the other fumbling to try and get the phone to stop buzzing, and realizes it's from Frank, informing him and the other recipients that they need to have a staff meeting ASAP, like probably tomorrow preferably before 10 am thanks, he knows something is definitely not ok.

And then the events of the other day come back to him in vivid technicolor and all he wants to do is curl up in a ball and never get up because they fucked up.  They fucked up really bad and Joe's fucking terrified.

He sends Frank a text back, takes ten deep breaths the same way Pete's first therapist told him to.  There's a bottle of aspirin in the kitchen and Joe takes two dry, then shuffles into Pete's room, shoves Pete out of the way and crawls into bed, still wrapped in his own blanket.

"Wuzzah?" Pete mumbles, blinking blearily at Joe. He's half asleep and Joe isn't gonna take that away from him so instead he just shrugs. “Go back to sleep Pete.”

“Wha’s wrong,” Pete’s slurring a little, and he keeps blinking determinedly, like if he keeps making his face move he won’t fall back asleep.

"We fucked up."

"S'ok, I fuck up all the time. I always fuck things up. You'll fix it. You're like a superhero. You always know how to fix broken things. You helped fix me."

Joe can feel his eyes burning, wants to tell Pete he's wrong, because he can't fix it this time, he doesn't know how.

"Go back to sleep, Panda."

"'You're gonna figure it out, Joe fro,"  Pete says, and there's a surprising amount of lucidity to his voice for someone who was asleep five minutes ago.  His confidence makes Joe's chest ache, and he hates that he's going to disappoint him and anyone else who's expecting him to have a solution.

"Not this time." Joe mumbles, but Pete's already drifted off again.  Joe falls asleep to the sound of Pete's breathing and the echoes of the city.

\- - -

Joe's at Closers at 5.  He doesn't need to be, because at like three Frank said they were gonna meet at seven, please be there this is a big deal guys, but he couldn't sleep, and he couldn't wake Pete up, and he would've gone crazy if he's sat around for much longer.

He's sitting on the stoop, smoking the last cigarette from a pack he found in the pocket of his winter coat, when Gee comes out.

He almost trips over Joe, swears loudly, and the starts apologizing.

"Gee- Gerard! It's fine, seriously, it's okay."

"Ah, fuck, Christ.  What're you doing down there, man?"

Joe shrugs, stubs his cigarette out on the ground.  "Couldn't sleep."

"It's fuckin' cold out man, you shoulda knocked."

Joe shrugs and Gee shakes his head.  "Nah, none of that bullshit.  You're not allowed to get all martyr-y and shit on my doorstep. No frozen corpses.  This ain't Game of Thrones.  You're coming inside, I’m making you facon."

There's really no other option, so Joe follows Gee up the stairs, almost trips over a pair of boots that look like they might belong to him, and waits in the Way-Iero apartment until everyone else shows up.

\- - -

Frank likes to be the hero. Joe knows because he sees it every time he comes into the shop to put out a fire or help clean up a foam explosion, every time he gives one of them an advance in their paychecks with little more than a shrug and a "Well I'm not gonna let you starve, am I?"

The way Frank looks right now, shoulders slumped more than usual, hair falling in his eyes, dejected and abandoned, without Gerard lurking in the corner for support, everyone knows that this time he can't play the hero.

They're in the cafe, clustered around three tables are pushed together in the center of the room, and everyone is looking up at Frank, who's perched on the counter, tired and jumpy.

"So are we- do you have to close it?" Brendon says, and his voice is soft and quiet, his eyes pale, milky brown in the early dawn sunlight, and Joe hates that. Hates that Brendon looks like a guilty kid, red rimmed eyes with slumping bruises, because it's not his fault, it's everyone's fault for running this place the way they do. Like a bunch of fucking morons.

It's Ryan's fault for taking Brendon's birdcage heart and smashing it on the ground.

It's Joe's fault for not being able to fucking do anything.

It's no one's fault, really, but it feels like it's someone's, like it's everyone's, and mostly it just sucks.

William's in Gabe's lap, hands linked.  His foot keeps vibrating, bumping against the table leg and agitating the whole thing, setting Joe's teeth on edge. Bill needs this job almost as much as Brendon, and Joe can see how worried he is.

Gabe just rubs circles into the small of Bill's back, alternating between talking quietly to him and pressing gentle kisses between his shoulder blades.  They've figure they're shit out, which is good, but there's really no reason for Gabe to be here.  He drove Bill to the shop and then didn't bother leaving.  Not that it really matters.

"They-- We don't have to close it, but there are conditions." Frank rubs a hand over his face, scrubbing at his eyes and the stubble on his chin.

"Whadda we have to do?" Sisky asks, eyebrows drawn.

"They're giving us a month to fix all the shit that's wrong with this place.  If we can get it all done, and we pass the inspection when they come back, they won't shut us down."

"But-- that's awesome!" Sisky says, and he looks bright and hopeful.  Frank looks like he's crushing dreams.

"Yeah, or, it would be if, y'know. We had money. Even as a group we can't afford to fix all this shit.  You guys are in school, you need your money for that. We're gonna try, but I think you all better start looking for other jobs."

Frank sounds so defeated, and Joe's pissed because he can't fix this, because there's nothing he can do.  He and Pete can't even afford to get their heater repaired.

"I'm sorry guys," Frank says, and it hurts more because they all know that as much as they might blame themselves, Frank's putting it all on himself.

Joe goes home angry and he locks himself in Pete's room with his dog and plays his guitar for too long, too loud, and doesn't stop until the neighbors start to complain.

\- - -

Andy calls because Joe won't, and he puts that on the list of reasons why Andy is probably perfect and Joe doesn't really deserve him even though he doesn't even have him yet.

"Hey."

"Hi."

Andy is quiet. It kind of feels a little bit like a therapy session, except for Joe can picture Andy's face, quiet and serene, bathed in the some unnatural light shining through the window, and Andy might be perfect, but his timing is not because it's past midnight and really, who the fuck calls now to talk about feelings.

Pete. Joe thinks. Pete calls at midnight to talk about feelings.

Joe's so fucked.

"I was gonna call."

Andy laughs and it's sweet and quiet and Joe wonders if he has a roommate he's keeping up with this phone call.

"Yeah, you fucked that one up a bit."

Joe laughs, but it comes out harsh and strained and he kind of wants to bury his face in the musty afghan wrapped around his shoulders and die.

"Sorry."

"You don't need to apologize, moron. Is everything okay?"

Joe is not really ready for this. He was ready for Andy to be a small, very hot asshole who he could maybe hook up with once and then forget about. He is not ready for the vegan animal rights activist with the soft voice and the small, sweet smile, and the huge sunglasses he uses to hide his blushing, and all the tattoos that swirl on his skin, beneath his shirt and under the waistband of his pants, and the swoop in Joe's stomach whenever Andy walks into a room, because it's overwhelming.

"Frank might have to close the shop?" He hates that his voice cracks, hates that it's a reminder of how young he is. He never meant for this stupid job to become so important, but he got a crazy group of friends that he can't imagine life without out of it and it just hurts to think of having to let that all go.

Andy's quiet for a really long time and Joe tucks his hands under his feet, picking at a hole in the toe of his sock and wondering if he hung up. Decided puppy eyes and five o'clock shadow weren't worth the emotional baggage Joe's been carrying around since high school.

Except that Andy was the one who called in the first place, and then he's talking, and Joe gets a little caught up in it all.

"You live right near the shop, right?" Andy asks, and there's a steely kind of determination in his voice that Joe hasn't heard yet and he likes it, wants to hear it more, and he's too busy thinking about that to remember Andy can't see him nodding.

"Uh, yeah. Downtown."

"Do you have a car?"

Joe thinks about the rusted piece of shit parked outside their apartment. "I wouldn't really call it a car, but it runs if you let it warm up for long enough."

"Go warm it up, and then you're gonna come over here and tell me what's going on."

Joe's going to protest, really, but then Andy's rattling off an address and Joe's fumbling for a pen and his shoes and he's got numbers and letters scrawled on his arm in smudged, black ink and his flannel pajama pants are half tucked into his boots and he's laughing while Andy swears under his breath.

"None of these fuckers ever tell me anything."

He's trying to be quiet, but it's dark and the door to Pete's room is open and Joe can hear his uneven breathing and the shuffle of the sheets. He's been better about actually going to bed since Patrick finally agreed to go out with him, but he's still a restless sleeper, and Joe doesn't want to wake him up, so he only swears a little when he stubs his toe trying to find his coat and only snickers at Andy's indignant grumbling.  He leaves Pete a note, too, because sometimes he wakes up and Joe doesn’t want him to freak out if he’s gone.

Worrying about Pete comes with the package of knowing him since basically forever, so Joe scribbles a “went to Andy’s. have my cell. call me.” on a sticky note and leaving it in the most obvious spot possible.

He probably should've put on two coats, because it feels like it's below zero and there's a little bit of snow coming down, but it's too late now and the sound his car is making isn't very reassuring. It starts, surprisingly, and Joe pulls out slowly, trying not to rush so she doesn't break down.

"It might take me a little while to get there," Joe says, tucking his phone in between his shoulder and his ear while he rubs the dashboard reassuringly, praying he doesn't end up having to walk home. Or to Andy's. There is only so much embarrassment a guy can deal with in one day.

"That's okay, I can wait. I'll make coffee?" And yeah, Joe's definitely maybe a little bit in love.

"That works. Here, I'll see what's playing on the radio, give us some atmosphere." Andy starts laughing and Joe puts him on speaker, listens to the tinny sound of the clattering dishes and Andy's nasally giggles filtering through the speaker.

He balances the phone on his knee and drives with one hand, flipping through radio stations with the other.  It's a good thing the roads are empty, because Joe's pretty sure he'd either crash or get a ticket if they weren't.  As it is, one of his headlights keeps flickering off and on, and he doesn't need to get pulled over for talking on the phone, too.

Apparently all anyone plays after midnight is obscure 80's music and beatdown pop ballads which Joe only knows the words to because of Pete. He belts them out anyway because it means he gets to hear Andy laughing more, and when he finishes Andy tells him he has a nice voice.

It takes him about twenty minutes to get to Andy's. Over the course of that ride his car stalls three times and he hits traffic once. Andy stays on the phone with him the whole time. They don't really talk that much, just quietly share airspace.

It's peaceful, and it stops Joe from running around his head following anxiety inducing trains of thought.

When he finally gets there, buzzing himself up to Andy's apartment, he’s cold and tired and only marginally less worried about going to an almost-strangers' home at 1:30 in the morning to talk about feelings. Andy opens the door with a very large cup of coffee in his hand, which he offers to Joe almost immediately, and a little more of the anxiety slips down his spine and out of his body, along with most of the reservations he keeps thinking he needs to have about Andy.

His hair is tousled and damp and he's wearing a pair of thick rimmed, rectangular glasses that keep slipping down his nose. His sweatpants are clinging to his hips and his t-shirt is riding up and there's a strip of would-be-pale, inked skin showing and Joe wonders if they can abandon talking about feelings and settle for making out instead because he really, really wants to just reach out and touch.

Before he can do anything stupid, like kiss Andy, Andy's shuffling out of the doorway, hideous, paisley patterned socks making soft sounds on the wooden floor. When he notices Joe staring down at them, he makes a face that translates to something like, "I dare you to say something about my socks, punk. Dare you."

"Nice socks."

Andy punches him in the arm

It feels weirdly natural to just flop onto Andy's lumpy futon, sprawling his arms and legs all over the place while he watches Andy putter around. He's moving a little like Pete does when he hasn't slept in over 72 hours but thinks he can still keep going.

Joe kind of feels like he woke Andy up, except that Andy called him, which, was he keeping Andy up?

He grins stupidly at himself until Andy comes back from the kitchen with another huge coffee mug clutched between his hands.

"So," Andy says, once he's settled next to Joe, their knees pressed together. "Wanna tell me what the fuck has been going on?"

Joe sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, feels the rasp of scruff against his palm. "I don't even know. Frank's kind of an idiot."

Andy snorts. It's kind of cute. Joe's fucked.

"Tell me something I don't know."

"So like, Ryan broke up with Brendon?" Andy makes a pissed noise, which Joe appreciates, but doesn't interrupt. "And then a ton of people came in and Brendon sort of lit the espresso machine on fire? And there were scorch marks everywhere and this guy said he was gonna report us to the health department and Frank came down and Brendon has like, second degree burns man, it's fucking. Anyway, so they got a health inspector to come down, and we don't even have a working fire alarm, y'know?"

Andy already looks like he knows how the story ends but Joe keeps talking anyway, feels the twist in his gut as the words fall out.

"The whole building is kind of a mess, and I guess they said they're gonna shut us down if we can't clean up by next month. And it's like, these idiots are my friends, and it's gonna really fuck it up for a lot of them. Brendon needs this money, William needs it. I need it, man. It's gonna fuck over all of us. Especially Frank. God, I think he was thinking of proposing to Gee soon too, fuck."

Andy kind of groans, frustrated and tired, and stares at the ceiling for a while, rubbing at a spot under his jaw.

"You know you work with morons, right?" he says finally, glancing over at Joe. He looks tired, barely-there dark circles under his eyes and frown lines around his mouth, but there's a upward tilt to the corner and a softness around his eyes when they meet Joe's.

"Yeah, but my best friend's kind of the biggest moron in the world. I've been acclimated to the insanity." He grins a little and Andy grins back and then they're both laughing and Joe has to put his coffee down on the rickety table next to him so he doesn't spill it.

It takes a little while to recover, and Joe tries not to think about how comfortable it feels to have Andy pressed against his side, how underneath the semi-constant monologue of oh fuck I fucked up we fucked up how are we gonna fucking fix this jesus fuck there's a happy, soft hum of I could get used to this I could get used to him.

"Pete is really stupid,"  Andy says once he's caught his breath, still smiling.

"Yeah, especially his jokes." Joe shrugs.  "Could be worse."

"Could be." Andy agrees, and then it's quiet again, and Joe tries to figure out if he should stop thinking about kissing Andy or about the fucking cafe.

"So you guys have a month," Andy says, deciding for him.

"Yeah. Which would be fine if we had, like, money."

Andy snorts again. "Tell me about it."

"Yeah, so. Kind of totally fucked."

Andy's quiet.  He looks like he's trying to remember something and then he starts to smile, like the fucking sun coming out from behind a cloud, and Joe's heart swells a little bit.

"Joe Trohman, you better fucking love me, because I think I might know how to fix your problem."

"Seriously?" Joe says, instead of yes, I love you.

"Yep, I'll know for sure in the morning."

"I could kiss you," Joe says, and does not blush because he's an adult.

"You could," Andy says, and he looks hopeful, like he doesn't really know what Joe's going to do, which is bullshit. Absolute bullshit. Joe has been very obvious about this.

Andy's kind of turned towards Joe, one leg tucked under his body, and it's not the best position for comfortable first kisses, really, but Joe has wanted to do this since Andy walked through the door of Coffee’s For Closers, so he leans forward, grabs a fistful of Andy's shirt, and kisses him anyway.

Somewhere between the first press of their lips and the scrape of Andy's beard against Joe's jaw, Andy shifts from his weird, folded up position into Joe's lap, and no one is complaining.  They’re pressed chest to chest, lined up perfectly.  Andy’s arms are looped around Joe’s neck, pulling them together, anchoring them, and he keeps stroking Joe’s neck with his thumb while he kisses him.  

Andy kisses the way he talks about things he cares about, fast and fierce, and Joe's breathless and exhilarated off the bat, because it's Andy, and it's so good.  He kisses the way he talks, and he kisses the way he smiles, slow and sweet, licking into Joe’s mouth, mapping out whatever part of his body with his hands that he can while he does, pressing his fingertips between Joe’s ribs, sliding his hands down his sides, rucking up his t-shirt.  Tangling one hand in Joe’s hair so he can tip his head back and bite at his neck, grinning at the moan that slips out when he palms Joe's dick through his pajama pants.

"Y'know, you're pretty hot stuff, Trohman," Andy says, and Joe can feel his smile pressed against his jaw while Andy grinds down in Joe's lap.

"I'd say the same about you, but I'm kinda distracted," Joe says, and Andy huffs out a laugh and kisses him again, hot and dirty.

"Bedroom?" Joe asks and Andy smiles, kisses his lips, his cheek, his eyelids, his forehead.

"Sure. God, I've wanted to do this for so long."

Joe laughs, kisses him again, and grinds his hips up.  "Me too, which is why we should move to the bedroom, so I can suck you off."

"You make a strong argument."

It's kind of comforting to know that they're both fucking nerds.

Andy kisses him again, and kisses him while they walk, arms looped around Joe's waist, backing him up against the door of his room. They’re pressed up against each other without any space between their bodies, it’s just the hot slide of their bodies, Andy’s erection pressed against his thigh.  He has to crane his neck to kiss Andy this way, unless Andy stands on his toes, but it's hot and he's hard and it's totally worth it.

"Andy." He even sounds whiney to himself, but he's been waiting so long to get to touch, and they can kiss anytime.  Maybe Andy shares the sentiment, or maybe he's just being nice, but he opens the door to his room after a bit of fumbling and pushes Joe towards the bed, pulling off his shirt as soon as they're no longer tangled together.

The thing about Andy’s tattoos is that it’s impossible not to know that they’re there.  Because he comes in with his t-shirts and his basketball shorts and they’re right there, and it’s pretty obvious where else they go, but seeing them all in front of him, in the soft light of Andy’s bedroom is kind of overwhelming.  He can’t stop touching Andy’s chest, running his hands over the inked lines and the flat planes of his body.  He can feel Andy’s chest expand every time he breathes in and presses his hands into the divots at the base of Andy’s spine, kisses his neck, his chest.  Traces his ribs and his sides, feels Andy’s hand slip into his hair, hears the sharp intake of breath before he kisses him again.

“You’re gorgeous.” He says and when Andy hums against his mouth he feels it through his whole body.

At some point they end up on the bed, and their clothes end up on the floor, and Joe doesn’t embarrass himself too badly when he gets tangled up in his fucking pants.

Andy spreads his legs and Joe kneels between them, pressing i love you’s he can’t say out loud yet into Andy’s thighs.  He takes Andy in his mouth and everything besides the weight of Andy on his tongue, and the taste of him, and the soft sounds coming out of Andy’s mouth, the way his hands tighten in Joe’s hair, tugging on it every time he swirls his tongue around the head of Andy’s dick.

Joe pulls off right before Andy comes, jerks him through his orgasm, and Andy kisses the taste of himself out of Joe’s mouth while he jerks him off, hand tight around his dick, stroking him slowly.

They curl up together after, sated and limp, legs tangled together, hands linked.  Joe falls asleep with three words on his lips and the sound of Andy’s heart beat in his ears.  It’s the most relaxed he thinks he’s been in a long time.

\- - -

Joe wakes up to sunshine and the sound of a blender.  It takes him a minute to remember where he is, but he’s smiling when he gets out of Andy’s bed and pulls on his pajama bottoms and a packer’s t-shirt he finds on the floor.

Andy’s in the kitchen, sitting on the counter next to the blender, talking on his phone quietly.  Joe pads over to stand between his legs, kisses Andy and rests his elbows on his thighs.

“Awesome, so we’re set for tomorrow?” Andy says, and he looks smug, his glasses slipping down his nose.  Joe pushes them up for him, smiles when Andy punches his arm.

“Who was that?” Joe asks, when Andy hangs up.  Andy grins and loops his arms around Joe’s neck.

 

“Oh Matt and my solution to you and your sorry ass’s problems.”

“Really?” Joe says, and this is all starting to seem a little too good to be true, but he wants this to work.  He needs this to work.

“Yep.”

Andy outlines the plan over frozen waffles and protein shakes, and when Joe leaves he’s still wearing Andy’s shirt and he’s pretty sure they didn’t fuck everything up.

 

Andy presses him against the front door before he leaves, kisses him hard and long, teases at the seam of his mouth with his tongue, drinks Joe in until they both have to come up for air.

 

It feels too soon for anything, and they’re still in the middle of a balancing act so Joe bites back his words, kisses Andy one more time and slips out with a quick “See you soon.”

Andy smiles and watches Joe stomp down the stairs, leaning against his doorway, and Joe figures he knows what he really meant.

\- - -

“So you ordered fair trade coffee this time right?”  

Andy’s standing on a ladder, screwing lightbulbs into the new light fixtures they bought to replace the old, pieces of shit that flickered almost constantly.  

Frank looks a little sheepish, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the floor.  “Uh.”

“Oh fuck no.” Andy says, and Joe grabs a hold of the ladder when Andy clambers down to kick at Frank’s shins.  “You fucker. I’m saving your ass, you are not supporting that shit.  I’m not letting you, it’s not happening.”

“Dude, ow.” Frank hisses and Andy just socks him again in the side and strolls into the back where Mikey is hunched over his tiny macbook, putting together all the orders.  “Yo Mikeyway, make sure you order fair trade shit for your asshole in-law okay?”

Mikey just waves his hand and keeps typing away, shoving at Gee when he leans over his shoulder to “help.”

It’s the second day into the plan that’s been titled “Fix All the Fucking Shit We Fucking Fucked Up” and so far it’s all running pretty smoothly.  Andy called up all his Fuck City people, and some other acquaintances who owed him favors, and somehow they’ve managed to procure new, working machines, and enough people to actually fix Frank’s shop.

It’s a production, for sure, and there’s been a lot of yelling, and swearing, and more broken mugs then Joe would like to think about but the important part is that they’re fixing it.  It’s not gonna get shut down.

Frank’s carrying his stupid velvet ring box in his pocket, waltzing Gee around the room when Andy and Matt aren’t berating him for his poor life choices, and Gee’s actually out pajamas for once.  Andy keeps tangling his and Joe’s fingers together, kissing him everytime he leaves with Matt to pick up more stuff, and everytime he comes back.

Gabe and William have sorted something out, enough that there’s less lingering tension and more them being ok. So heavy innuendos and lot’s of touching, but it’s better than the alternative.

Jon came in halfway through the first day, looking tired and slightly offended that he hadn’t been invited to the shindig.  He actually does stuff, which is nice, and he alternates between helping Matt and Kyle carry the heavy shit, and flirting with Spencer.

Brendon’s the only one who hasn’t quite settled back in.

Ryan’s gone, fucked off to some hipstery cafe across town where fewer people want to punch his stupid face or poison his pretentious mocha extra foam half espresso bullshit because he threw away Brendon’s heart.

Turns out it was less puppy love and more “slow build heading into pretty fucking serious territory” and then Ryan bailing out because of “trust issues.”

Even Spencer is pissed about it, and he’s spent his whole life dealing with Ryan’s bullshit, he’s used to it.  

Brendon’s quiet and tired mostly, all the color and life drained from him.  His smiles are half hearted and all the ways he’s broken down are etched on his face.  Joe’s pretty sure the last time he saw him smile was when they put in the espresso machine the first day and Gabe offered to have Nate piss in Ryan’s drink next time he was on shift across town.

Brendon had laughed and shaken his head with a bitter smile.  Joe watched Spencer’s fists curl and Gabe’s face fall and never wanted to punch someone more in his life.  Andy just wrapped an arm around his waist, pressed up behind him and kisses his shoulder, whispered quiet assurances to him.  

Things are starting to seem normal again.  

A week in and they’ve got the place running again.  All the machine’s work, Brendon smiles, but it’s sad and reserved.  Gee lurks at his table with sketchbooks and paint and whatever project he’s working on that day.

Frank comes down twice a week, bleary eyed and sleepy and runs the place better than any of them could ever do.

Ryland and Vicky T come in twice a week and study and cat call at Gabe and William from their table.

They’re still battered around the edges, but it’s bandaged, and fixed, in its own way.

\- - -

They pass the second inspection and Frank proposes to Gee on the spot.  Gerard cries a little bit, and says something strange, equal parts romantic and morbid, and then spirits Frank away to their little apartment for the next 72 hours.

They’ve got a new guy for baked goods.  His name is Kenny and he’s small and sweet and makes the best coffee cake Joe has ever tasted.  He gets Brendon to smile too, with his stupid jokes and the pictures of his dog.  

One morning, when Joe and Brendon are opening the shop, waiting around for the delivery, a tall guy in a button down comes in carrying boxes from Kenny’s bakery.  

He’s got floppy hair and too-long limbs and as soon as he sees Brendon something on his face shifts, like he’s seeing the sun for the first time.  Joe has to hide behind the coffee cups because he knows that look, and it’s a good thing.

“Uh, hi, are you Brendon? I’m- these are from Kenny, he told me to bring them to you? He’s sick, um, I’m Dallon.”

Brendon’s so much more drawn in on himself now, but something about him breaks open, and he grins, a real smile splitting his face, and Joe missed that.  

“Yeah, that’s me. Thanks, nice to meet you Dallon.”

Dallon smiles and ducks his head, his hair flopping in his eyes.  “Uh yeah, nice to meet you too.  Kenny talks about you a lot.”  Dallon’s eyes crinkle around the corners when he smiles and he pushes his hair out of his eyes.

Brendon’s still smiling and Dallon doesn’t leave for another twenty minutes.  If it weren’t for the frantic texts from the professor he’s a TA for Joe’s pretty sure he would’ve stayed longer.  Brendon’s not the Brendon he was before, he’s more reserved and tame, in his own way, but Joe doesn’t miss the numbers scribbled on the side of Dallon’s coffee cup.

When he goes back to Andy’s place that night, after his shift is over and he’s done with his classes, and they curl up on Andy’s lumpy futon together, he realizes that everything’s settled back into place.

Andy’s lying against him, back to his chest, and Joe presses a kiss to the top of his head, watching him channel surf.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Andy looks up at him, all soft on the edges, smiling in the way Joe’s realized is almost always just for him.

“Love you.”

The smile just widens and Andy cranes his neck so he can kiss Joe, quick and sweet. “Love you too.”

  
They’re gonna be ok.


End file.
